The storm today turned the Maple leaves inside out.
Blowing strong from the South, swirling, gusting,
tossing birds about.
Bending, twisting limbs in a sort of rout.
Winter storms are worse, but then bare branches reduce the force -
Now, in June, leaves are like sails hauling an anchored ship.
I watch, and wait for windfall slip.
July 2020
A tree through all seasons
Stark winter bones reveal deep within a scruffy nest of sticks
mid-way one day in May the leaves pop out full and green overnight
then red flowers sprinkled like cake decorations the red morphs into pink,
below branches emerge yellow clusters, the birds take cover
hard to say what's in the nest, a jay I'll bet.
The pink wings turn to blush and fade. The yellow trailing gold spangles caught in morning
glinting bright bathed in August light.
A lull and dust, leaves shady rest,
Still to come undone.
August 2020
I think that I shall never see a poem as lovely as a maple tree...
mid-way one day in May the leaves pop out full and green overnight
then red flowers sprinkled like cake decorations the red morphs into pink,
below branches emerge yellow clusters, the birds take cover
hard to say what's in the nest, a jay I'll bet.
The pink wings turn to blush and fade. The yellow trailing gold spangles caught in morning
glinting bright bathed in August light.
A lull and dust, leaves shady rest,
Still to come undone.
August 2020
I think that I shall never see a poem as lovely as a maple tree...
Hedge Witch redux
I am a hedge witch
I gather sticks and stones
I feel things in my bones.
After tea I go, out and walk about
looking here and there (crows follow me everywhere)
searching to see the scented herbs are still there
lavender, parsley, sweet cicely, comfrey, plantain, dandelion leaf
to make magic potions for healing my emotions.
I peer beneath tangled shrubbery, and look for things I cannot see.
Engulfed by a thorny jungle of sprawling vine and leaf
the waning light is brief.
I am a hedge witch, it is too late to switch
But on a starry night in May
when all the flowers swoon (and crows tumble at my feet)
I take my twiggy broom, and fly around the moon.
04/13/2019 / 12/21/2019
I gather sticks and stones
I feel things in my bones.
After tea I go, out and walk about
looking here and there (crows follow me everywhere)
searching to see the scented herbs are still there
lavender, parsley, sweet cicely, comfrey, plantain, dandelion leaf
to make magic potions for healing my emotions.
I peer beneath tangled shrubbery, and look for things I cannot see.
Engulfed by a thorny jungle of sprawling vine and leaf
the waning light is brief.
I am a hedge witch, it is too late to switch
But on a starry night in May
when all the flowers swoon (and crows tumble at my feet)
I take my twiggy broom, and fly around the moon.
04/13/2019 / 12/21/2019
Canadian Gothic
A ghostly cold crept in through the walls.
Night lasted past morning time.
The deflated moon limped eerily along
like a ship without a rudder.
A lone jay called through the dark
as if to say wake up it's day.
I followed its squawking out
into the violet scented gloom,
as I went to spread some corn around,
And nearly tripped over the body
of my brother Don, who'd fallen
drunk among the bracken.
Lord love a duck!
Don get off the ground you'll
freeze your ass get crackin!
He crawled on all fours in through the door
and collapsed in the middle of the floor.
I threw a blanket on him and he
shivered and asked for rum.
What the feck you doin out there Bro
Don't you know the war is on?
Sit up now, here's your gun.
Then I woke up with a start.
It was a dream Jean, you worry wort,
I told myself.
The jays were agitating
As I lay contemplating.
A new day was dawning, and the sky sang
yellow.
All was mellow.
Then Mr Hunt came up the rise
with his Post bag at his side.
Good morning Jean you look a sight.
Here's a letter from your brother,
I was sure I heard you say he passed away.
You look a fright, like you seen a ghost.
What's the matter?
I looked back in the room and saw
my brother in the chair.
How could he be there? When he died
in the war?
Mr. Hunt, I cried, That's him inside!
He just laughed,
You are mistaken!
What kind of drug have you been taking?
As he turned and walked away
I saw the sun was setting.
And I watched with dismay as the blue jay flew away.
When I went back inside the house
there was no one there
except an empty chair.
It whispered to me,
You need a rest, you've gone quite loonie.
Take a load off now,
We'll sort this out somehow come Tuesday.
April 2020
Somewhere in the Broughton Archipelago
afloat on calm
water paddling
alone in a
boat
going nowhere
slowly
dipping
effortlessly
on the sea
in summer out
past the
rocks
through the
pass
into the
ether away
from the shore's
scrubby pines
wanting
nothing
unaware
of the Orca
following
me
under
into the deep.
April 2020
water paddling
alone in a
boat
going nowhere
slowly
dipping
effortlessly
on the sea
in summer out
past the
rocks
through the
pass
into the
ether away
from the shore's
scrubby pines
wanting
nothing
unaware
of the Orca
following
me
under
into the deep.
April 2020
Ode to a Toad
I saw a toad on the road
and I wondered what does this bode?
He weren't carrying any load
in the moonlight his bumps glowed
hopped away when I strode
too close. I followed
as he tiptoed cross the road
then slowed, overshadowed
to and froed, then tally-hoed
down the road in a hoboed mode.
I felt sorrowed as the moonlight
bestowed one last geckoed glimpse
so I wrote this ode...
January 2019
Night Dancing with Plath - A Variation
Like a child
softly sleeping
a Lily’s soul paints
petals on my dreams
And I retrieve her smile
from the grass!
She is dancing
in the moonlight
Her cold shadows
circle me.
Forgetting now our paths
We cross space like falling stars
Gifts of frozen light
melting.
April 2018
softly sleeping
a Lily’s soul paints
petals on my dreams
And I retrieve her smile
from the grass!
She is dancing
in the moonlight
Her cold shadows
circle me.
Forgetting now our paths
We cross space like falling stars
Gifts of frozen light
melting.
April 2018
Wings
Midnight blue colour of Swallow's wings.
O' what longing for alchemy is this?
Words tossed in sleep, as dreamed sing.
To impart upon the page a morning's miss.
The swallow cuts a path across the sky.
Blue on blue, in perfect ellipse,
a flutter of sweeping spirals,
the wanderers fly,
On journeys homeward
through skies of mist.
Ever on the wing, the Swallow is blessed
to gently light, and build a nest.
July 2018.
O' what longing for alchemy is this?
Words tossed in sleep, as dreamed sing.
To impart upon the page a morning's miss.
The swallow cuts a path across the sky.
Blue on blue, in perfect ellipse,
a flutter of sweeping spirals,
the wanderers fly,
On journeys homeward
through skies of mist.
Ever on the wing, the Swallow is blessed
to gently light, and build a nest.
July 2018.
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